“I used to be you,” he interrupts. “Remember? Same speeches, same bullshit about freedom and not needing anyone. Then Amelia happened.”
“And now you’re covered in applesauce.”
“And I’ve never been happier.” He’s serious. Completely serious. I shift in my seat, my jaw tightening, because the certainty in his eyes makes something in my chest ache. “It’s terrifying, yeah. Having someone who could destroy you just by leaving. But Dean… the alternative is this.”
He gestures at me, at my empty glass, at my expensive suit and crooked tie, and at the perfect life that has a hole where something should be.
“I should go.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
“You should go to Italy.”
“What?” I blink, my pulse kicking hard, as if he’s just ripped open a thought I’ve been fighting to bury.
“Whatever happened with that wedding planner, fix it.”
My chest tightens, defensive walls slamming up. “There’s nothing to fix.”
“Right.” He stands and throws cash on the table. “That’s why you’ve checked your phone six times since I got here.”
I haven’t. Have I? I glance at my phone anyway, guilt prickling hot under my collar.
“Go home,” he says. “Think about what you actually want. Then maybe, for once in your life, be brave enough to take it.”
He leaves, and I order another bourbon.
I stare at my phone.
She hasn’t texted. Why would she? I told her to be careful, like she was a stranger, like our time together meant nothing.
I’m not sitting here drowning in baby photos and pretending I still believe my own bullshit.
The thought of her meeting someone new and moving on isn’t pleasant. It sits in my stomach like a rock.
I pay and drive home. The estate is dark except for the security lights.
No George. No chaos. No woman in a sundress making everything difficult.
Just quiet.
I head inside, pour a scotch, and sit on the couch.
I get up, pour more scotch, and stare out the window at the guest cottage.
“Damn it.”
Ten minutes later, I’m standing at the cottage door with the spare key.
This is stupid. She’s gone. There’s nothing—
I open the door.
The scent hits me immediately—vanilla, her perfume, that damn cucumber face mask she wore one morning. There’s a physical ache in my chest where my heart used to be.
I should leave.
Instead, I walk in. Everything is exactly as she left it. The bed is made with military corners. One coffee mug sits in the drying rack. Her planning binder is gone, but a sticky note is stuck to the counter—Thank you for everything. Take care of George. And Muffin. And yourself. - P
“Take care of yourself,” I mutter. “Real original.”
